


Late Owl

by dovesdanceatdawn



Series: Origami and Poetry [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Asexual Castiel, Dean Has a Brief Appearance, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Origami, POV Castiel, Poet Sam, Poetry, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:38:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dovesdanceatdawn/pseuds/dovesdanceatdawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/><em>Strips of paper fell to the floor below scissors and shaky hands. Castiel placed the shears down and watched the alarm clock on his desk change in the late night quiet. Two hours before sunrise.</em><br/><br/>Sam hasn't been home in a few days. Castiel copes with a new project.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Owl

 

Strips of paper fell to the floor below scissors and shaky hands. Castiel placed the shears down and watched the alarm clock on his desk change in the late night quiet. Two hours before sunrise.

Castiel measured the edges again, held the ruler until the zero mark aligned with a side, and nodded at the crisp editing. He kicked the strips and wads of fallen paper and moved closer into the small circle of light.

The restlessness felt like a distant memory when he kept his hands busy. Idle fingers led to what ifs and worries, after all. _The Devil’s plaything_ , Cas thought. He scoffed at the phrase just like he did when he first heard it.

He folded the square sheet of paper in half and sharpened the crease with his fingernail. Another fold later and Cas stared at two squares pressed and waiting. He opened the sheet to reveal four squares found in plain white.

Four days without Sam.

He abandoned his desires for a crane and folded the piece of paper until the creases formed a starburst. The exposed star did nothing to calm Castiel’s nerves, but it’s a start.

He debated which of the eight lines would mold under his fingers and settled for the lines folding the square into a triangle. He then pushed in the left and right points until the paper bent and shaped into a diamond-like accordion. A frog comes to mind when he pushes down on the open end.

Cas had received Sam’s gift in the mail yesterday, the third day into the Winchester’s hunt upstate. He had removed the contents from the envelope and had read each verse with a hunger he hasn’t dwelled on since the brother’s departure, repeating the script in his head for the rest of the day, and the many hours after:

_The muse, locked in golden wire,/ larks a wisher close to dreams;/ seems the mountain frost and river bend distract his heart no longer./ He settles down with lock and key/ and dream a fever filled with awe./ Bliss, the skin feels warm when I near sleep./ Afflatus, pray my wish comes soon._

Castiel took the top half of the accordion diamond, folded and unfolded the flapping ends. He did the same with the top point, careful to keep the crease straight. When he got the folds nice and sharp, Cas flipped the bottom flaps slow, revealing a taller, open diamond. He flattened the progress and repeated the steps on the other side.

The shaking in his hands dwindled to small tics as he worked. Still, Castiel had to adjust the lamp so the diamond tip wouldn’t bump against the shade.

He continued to shape, folding the top of the front and back diamonds down until he held a kite in his hands. The ex-angel ignored thoughts of Sam fighting a formidable foe as he folded the left and right points of his kite inward to meet the middle line. He swallowed the idea of poetry in their bed stroking every inch of his skin with vibrant, word-soaked petals. It was exploration without need, curiosity without consequence, and he wished …

After folding the other side of the kite to match the front, Cas opened the figure from the side and pulled on the loose flap until an oddly shaped, mini kite poked out from the space. He repeated the steps on the other side and pressed down, completing the illusion of wings.

Castiel stared at the nearly completed work, rolling the loss at his shoulder blades away as he thought of the next step. He folded the top point down, saved a centimeter as he folded the point up again.

_The muse, locked in golden wire, larks a wisher close to dreams;_

Cas creased the back of the point down, bringing with him the top point and the wedge created from his folds. He lifted the bottom of the work in progress and noted the flaps. Scissors, he would need them next.

Cutting the feet wasn’t difficult, but he knew the following steps were tricky. He nudged a wad of paper aside and leaned forward. On the top layer, Cas cut a small line along the crease in the creation’s middle and pushed the loose ends up. He shifted his focus to the top—the head, it’s the head now—and flipped the work on its stomach.

The last time Castiel tried tuffs, he sheared the head. He took a deep breath and tried anyway.

The first tuff cut clean, leaving a bit of paper attached to the body. Cas pulled the tuff up and admired the small success; his finger poked a smaller tuff peeking behind the larger one. He then turned to the second one, sighed while holding the scissors as firm as he could manage. Fifty percent chance he could do it, fifty percent chance he couldn’t.

The scissors snipped carefully, starting in and cutting downward. Castiel cut a few tics further … the scissors clanged on the table. Blood bloomed in tiny beads across the tip of his index finger. He was so worried about that damn tuff–.

Castiel pushed away from the desk and stood. He turned to the drawer while he looked at the cut; not too bad, but enough to bleed and burn.

Cas pulled open the top drawer and grabbed a small bottle of alcohol. He walked over to the small sink hidden beside his dresser and twisted the cap off. He poured a tiny amount in the cap and dipped his finger in it. He concentrated on memories of injuries far worse than a nick to negate the pain. Enough, that’s enough.

Sam had told him they would be back yesterday. He had called that morning to tell Cas the bad news, but it should have been … _enough_ , Castiel.

The burning feeling bubbled down to a dull throb when Cas returned to his work. The tuff wasn’t that bad, a bit snipped at the top, but not enough to call it a failure. He glanced at the clock: less than an hour before dawn.

“I can’t …” Castiel shook his head and lifted the tuff up. He would need a band-aid from the infirmary, probably another book now that he had finished. He grabbed the ink covered frog instead.

“He settles down with lock and key and dream a fever filled with awe,” Cas whispered. “The stars are on your tongue, Sam Winchester.”

He got up from his seat a second time and left the room.

 

************

 

He was an idiot. Foolish for worrying, foolish for feeling these human nuisances, foolish. Castiel re-wrapped the band-aid around his finger, pressed lightly on the skin so it stayed in place.

He knew what hunting entailed yet he pined for Sam’s return. Four days that should have been three, flesh instead of the tug and pull and _freedom_ to roam to his beloved. Cas wished he was there, wished he was by Sam’s side–.

_“Can’t have you running around while every angel out there wants to hunt you down,” Dean had said on his way out. “Sorry, man. Bunker’s safer.”_

Castiel grumbled those last words while he removed a volume of urban legends from the shelf. “You didn’t need him,” he said to the spine. “You took him away, you bastard.”

The trembles intensified, betraying conviction. _Calm down, Castiel_.

He steadied himself with a table, minding the book between his arms and heaving chest. “These emotions are getting the better of you,” he said to himself. “Dean was right … calm yourself.”

He breathed in time with the ticking pipes in the walls. In, out, in, until his chest no longer burned of rage. He slumped forward, palms pressing tabletop, and stared at the gold letters on the book cover. He would need something else to do if he was going to stop the tremors.

Castiel trudged his way back to his room, book in hand, thoughts fleeting. He eyed the source of a click above him; Dean would have to service the pipes soon.

The ex-angel’s hand turned the doorknob and pressed lightly against the door. He clung to the doorframe when he noticed a shift in his room. His collection of frogs was intact, so were his possessions on his dresser. Nothing wrong with the bed, but the desk …

The origami owl lay on the table, cream under lamplight. On its wing was a word scrawled in green: BEAUTIFUL.

Cas approached the desk and placed the book down. He reached out and trailed the letters with steady fingers. He picked up the owl and felt his fingers put it into his pocket. His heart pounded when he felt paper slide down and hit plastic, cried out when he hurried out of his room. Castiel quickened his pace and sought out home.

 

 

***********

 

“You good, Sam?” Dean stood in the doorway dividing hall from his brother’s room. He raised an eyebrow and held his gaze at the figure blocked from Castiel’s sight. “Good, I’ll be in the garage,” he said.

Dean moved back from the door and faced Cas. He blinked then quelled any evidence of a slight jolt from his, now blank, stare.

“Dean,” Castiel whispered. He glanced at the door then back to the older Winchester.

The wrinkles and hard edges on Dean’s forehead and around his mouth softened; crow’s feet danced with the ghost of a smile. “He’s cool,” Dean whispered back.

Cas held his gaze.

“I’ll catch up with you later,” Dean replied. He walked around the ex-angel, patted his shoulder on his way down the hall. A beat and a turn later, the hunter was gone.

 _Work._ Castiel looked down at his knees and tugged on his pant leg. He could feel the creak in his bones, the ache around his eyes, the prickles on his skin, but he bit his lip hard and tore through his body’s craving for his bed. He reached the doorway when he heard his poet weave.

“Temporal is the beat that clicks between the rests of work and need. Sowing seeds of seconds past, it pumps young night along …”

Sam removed his coat and placed it on his bed. He turned to the backpack by his feet and grabbed the straps.

“Sam,” Castiel whispered.

Sam paused, back facing Cas. A second later, he shook his head. “Cas.”

Sam lowered the backpack back on the ground and faced the door; he pushed his hair back behind his ears. Castiel saw Sam’s dimples before the crinkles under the younger man’s eyes. He returned the smile that brought peace to his nerves.

“We came back as soon as we could,” Sam said, making his way to the door. “I had a feeling the hunt wasn’t going to be easy. I’m just glad I sent a frog to you when I did.”

Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out the origami animals. “I wanted to try something new,” he said and nodded at the owl.

“I’ve noticed.” Sam moved close, sighed when Cas reached out and slowly pulled him closer. “You should get some sleep.”

“It took me a few tries, but I managed to get this one right,” Castiel said. He lifted the owl by the tail. “… I couldn’t sleep. Not without you.”

Sam leaned in and kissed the skin below Castiel’s temple. “Give me a few minutes to unpack. We can sleep in your room tonight if you’d like.” He kissed the ridge between Castiel’s eyes. “Would you like that?”

“Hmm.” Cas closed his eyes and lowered the owl. He bit back a yawn and squeezed Sam in his arms. “Or, we can sleep in your bed.”

Sam laughed, the warm breath tickling against Castiel’s ear. “Give me a minute,” he whispered.

Folds and creases, a click from the lamp, and then they were in bed. They faced each other underneath sheets that shuffled like paper and they took in each other’s world.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas whispered.

“Hi, Cas,” Sam replied. “Would you like to hear a poem?”

Castiel buried himself deeper in the sheets. He rested his head on Sam’s chest and listened the thrum of his poet’s heart. Beat by beat, Cas heard wings.

“… Tell me what you have so far.” 


End file.
